


In My Life

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Established Relationship, F/M, Missing Moments, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Though I know I'll never lose affection</i>
  <br/>
  <i> For people and things that went before </i>
  <br/>
  <i> I know I'll often stop and think about them </i>
  <br/>
  <i> In my life, I love you more. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>A collection of "I love yous" from a life shared by Stiles and Lydia Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Life

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of drabbles from a really cool prompt meme, which can be found [here](http://rongasm.tumblr.com/post/143666803325/the-way-you-said-i-love-you) . Most of these were posted on my tumblr, but there's three that weren't, so I thought I'd just throw all of them together, because they're all from my niche-verse, with one slight twist that you'll notice towards the end. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy these! It's just cute domestic Stydia fluff, mostly, which I think the fandom definitely needs. You can find me at rongasm on tumblr, where I live my life screaming over these assholes. 
> 
> (Title from the Beatles song, which I head canon to be Stiles and Lydia's wedding song.)

_**In awe, the first time you realized it** _

Lydia is all empty. She's empty in a way that feels like teeth against pale, pretty skin, stabbing elegant lines of red against flesh. She's empty like glass coke bottles on the side of the road and tubes with nothing left to squeeze and her mother on day thirty-six of the divorce when she screamed, screamed, screamed until there had been nothing left. She is empty like knees scraping roughly against the linoleum, a combination of physical pain and humiliation and the agony of knowing that everything is avoidable.

_She could have stopped this. She could have stopped Allison from dying._

Scott sits next to her, his right hand clasped tightly in her left hand, and she still thinks empty. She pictures her skin detached from her organs, fluttering in the soft breeze, and everybody can see her. Everybody can see how vapid and detached and unemotional she has become because her best has been wrenched from her hands and it's all her fault.

_(She could have stopped this. She could have stopped Allison from dying.)_

"You need to eat," says Scott, brushing a thumb over her pulse point in a gesture of comfort, and Lydia wants to nod and lean her head against his collarbone and lean on him, maybe go to sleep, but she can't do that because it would mean vulnerable and Lydia can't show anyone how hard it was to get out of bed this morning. She can't tell anyone that she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror and thought about how it would be to not exist anymore. If you don't exist, you can't feel.

She feels like she could have stopped this. She could have stopped Allison from dying.

"Scott," Lydia says, voice coming out without any sound. He raises his eyebrows when he sees her lips move, and maybe he can hear what little sound she's able to release, but she's just testing it, really. She just wants to know if it still works.

Lydia shakes her head and she keeps struggling to keep her eyes open to this world that suddenly seems so boring, so pointless.

There's a small noise of annoyance across the quad, and Lydia's stomach lifts at the sound of his voice. She's trained herself to seek it out in any room, any instance, because she adores it. It picks her up from the ground and makes her feel like the wind that stings her cuts and bruises has an actual point.

She straightens slightly, because she doesn't want him to see her needing something to lean on. She wants to be the thing on which he leans. She wants them to do that thing where he crawls into her bed and holds her while she cries and her tears stroke his shirt while he strokes her hair and she falls asleep on him and it's okay because one time he told her she looked beautiful when she cried.

_(It doesn't matter anyways. There's nothing beautiful left in the world, including Lydia Martin.)_

They've done it three times in the week since Allison died, and Lydia feels so stapled to those moments. She thinks they might be the reason she was able to move from the bed to the shower this morning, shivering against the cold of the tiles and the cold metal shower handle and Allison's body, cold on the ground.

It occurs to Lydia, as Stiles moves closer, that she anticipates it in a way that makes her sick to her stomach. He sits down at the table and her heart beats faster and she wants to throw up. He nods at Scott, barely able to meet his best friend's eyes, and Lydia is so disgusted because she wants to touch him and be next to him and let his smell consume her thoughts but Allison isn't living anymore and neither should Lydia. Lydia shouldn't be falling in love when her whole world has fallen apart.

Except that's the problem, isn't it? She's not falling. It's not anything as trivial as falling. She's gone. She's on the ground, pebbles pressing persistently into her palms, dirt caking her knees. She's fallen, and it fills her, up up up to the brim.

"I'm in love with you," she murmurs, but she can't speak, can't use her voice, because there's no point. Allison's dead. Lydia's in love with Stiles. It's too late.

It's too late to do anything but sit here silently and choke down the scream.

* * *

 

_**A scream** _

"You're not going to hurt me, Lydia. Can you just… seriously, please? Scream?"

She sits on the floor of the practice room that they're in, staring at herself in the wall of mirrors. In leggings and a sports bra, Lydia looks like she's just gotten out of gym class. Except it's 4:30 in the afternoon, and school is over. Lately, they've been heading here to attempt to teach Stiles some self defense. It had come so naturally to Scott, but Lydia had actually been taught it, so she's been attempting to give some of the same lessons to Stiles.

Unfortunately, he's far less apt at it than she has been. She's actually highly considering building him a better bat, a mental one that has a knife laced with poison that can stick out when he presses down on a button. But Lydia isn't entirely convinced that he wouldn't accidentally stab himself or one of the wolves, so she's keeping that on the back burner.

Today, however, Stiles had taken their lessons on a slightly unorthodox rout.

"Shut up, Stiles. You don't get it."

"I know that you aren't going to kill someone if you scream, Lydia. You need to stop holding them in. You're going to make your head hurt worse."

He's been pacing back and forth across the floor for twenty minutes, his sweatpants just a bit too short on him, his navy blue t-shirt pulling tight over his shoulders. Normally, Lydia would be all for watching the muscles in his back move as he wrings his hands. But today he's _pushing_ , and she's sick of it. She doesn't want him to push her. She wants to go back to the easy friendship that they've grown accustomed to during the last two months instead of him pushing her, because Stiles isn't allowed to push her and he never has been. It's unnatural. It's not the order of things.

Although if his glare is anything to go by, she strongly suspects that he doesn't really care about the order of things at all.

"I don't know why you don't want to go back to sparring. Why are you doing this?"

"I'm shit at sparring and we both know it."

True.

"The last time I screamed, I made glass shatter. The time before that, I _killed_ a man. I need to learn how to contain it."

"No," he says, frustrated. "You need to do what you said Meredith started to teach you how to do. You need to learn how to use it as a bullet."

"And in the meantime, you want to be collateral damage?"

"Hey, making Lydia Martin scream doesn't seem like the worst way to go." He stops pacing, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

" _Jesus_ , Stiles," she says, shaking her head warily.

"I swear to god, I didn't think about that before I said it, I never would have—"

"Luckily," Lydia says, getting off of the floor. "You are the most frustrating person in the entire universe, so forcing me to scream doesn't seem like it's out of your reach."

Idiot.

"Lydia, I'm so sorry, I just—"

"Shut up. You made a sex joke. It happens."

Not to them, though. Never to them. He's usually so careful. It makes her stomach twinge, like maybe he stopped being careful about it because he doesn't want her anymore. She wishes she could tell.

"Why aren't you more pissed?"

"I'm more annoyed that you called me 'Lydia Martin.' Seriously, are we fifteen?"

"Like I said, I'm really—"

He begins stammering out an apology, his cheeks bright red from embarrassment, and from her spot across the room, Lydia just watches him. Watches the veins in his arms as he moves them around emphatically, watches the seriousness of his eyes, watches the emphasis that comes across in the way he moves his lips.

She breathes out. Slowly.

All he's trying to do is get her to scream for her own good. He's seriously just caring for her. And if she can do this, if she can scream without hurting him, then it's good. Then it means the getting back to the same kind of control that she had before Eichen, but this time with more power. More direction.

"Wait outside," Lydia says abruptly.

"Hmm?"

"Outside," she tells him again, pointing. He frowns at her, but walks to the door, stepping outside and closing it behind him.

Lydia takes a few steps forward until she is in the middle of the room, facing Stiles, who is peering at her through the glass in the door. She is in a room covered with mirrors. If she fucks this up, all the mirrors will shatter, which is going to be a disaster that is going to cause a bigger headache than a couple of voices screaming in her head.

She takes a deep breath to begin to scream, and she sees Stiles smile at her, just a little bit, in a way that is shy and nervous. It catches on Lydia's chest, making her heart stutter, and her eyes smile because her mouth cannot.

Loving him makes everything better and scarier and wonderful and awful. Loving him makes her want to scream.

She releases the sound that she is holding taut, like a rubber band, and lets it spring across to Stiles. His eyes widen from outside of the room, and he places a hand on the glass, no doubt checking to see if it's vibrating. But it doesn't crack. Lydia stops her scream, and this time, she actually smiles at him, proud of herself.

"You fucking did it!" Stiles cheers, jerking the door open and rushing back into the room. "Lydia, that was fucking badass."

She wants to say _I love you_ , but she says thanks instead, and slaps her hand against the high five that he offers her.

It's not as good as a kiss, but she's willing to wait for that. She isn't sure if he loves her right now. But maybe he could, in the future. Maybe someday, she'll be able to tell him that she can use him as her anchor.

* * *

 

_**Before you jump** _

They've been talking for hours. It's freezing cold on the roof of Derek's apartment complex, and the blanket that Stiles had draped over Lydia's shoulders doesn't help much against the wind that is causing her hair to flutter chaotically around her face. She would mind, normally, because she's sure it must look like a rat's nest. But Stiles doesn't seem to care. As a matter of fact, Stiles is looking at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, even in the orange light of streetlamps that barely reach them up here.

That's the thing, isn't it? Stiles _always_ looks at her like she's the most beautiful thing in the world.

"So what was its name?"

Lydia's voice is hoarse, although it usually is lately, and she wants to take another sip from her water bottle, but it's mostly empty, and she feels like she's saving it for something. The thing is, she and Stiles haven't talked like this in forever. Maybe _ever_. He spills everything into her lap and allows her pick up the pieces of his mom, his anger, his relationships with his dad and Scott and the entire universe, which he wants to stick his middle finger up at most of the time.

"Uh, Boa Fett," Stiles recalls, cringing at the look of mirth on Lydia's face. "Come on, seriously, it's not that bad."

"It's horrible," she laughs, putting a hand up to her mouth to try to stifle the noise.

He smiles down at his lap, where both of their hands are sitting, tangled together in the darkness. Their crossed legs are pressed together as much as they can be, but Lydia can't help but want to be more tangled up in him. She wants their limbs knotted together, bent and tied so that he can't be pulled away from her. Not by anything. Not by the forces of the universe that both of them are so afraid of.

"You had a dog named after a clothing brand."

"That was an excellent name."

"Yeah, only if your pet didn't get turned into a handbag."

Lydia's mouth drops open in indignance.

"Stiles!"

He shrugs unapologetically, drawing another heart on the palm of her hand. Momentarily distracted by the tickle, Lydia switches their positioning and draws his name on his own palm with her index finger, doing it in large, loopy cursive. She looks up at him.

"My name," he guesses, and she nods. It's cold on the rooftop, but Lydia doesn't want to leave. Instead, she writes _I love you_ in her handwriting, then looks back up expectantly. "I… didn't get that one."

She draws her name next. Lets it travel up to his forearm a bit, shoving his sleeve back, and he shudders at the feeling of her fingers on his skin. At her marking him. Stiles' breath comes out in one long, shaky shot, and then he's just smiling at her, small and intimate, like he has been for the past three and half hours.

"Are we done beating around the bush?" she asks softly. Stiles huffs slightly, his head knocking back as his eyes look towards the stars momentarily, sharing his thought with them.

"I was never beating around the bush. You were."

"Mhm, yeah. Sure."

"We're out here for a reason," he says, voice quiet.

"And we're not leaving until we talk about it."

"And we've talked about everything else in the whole world."

"Did I tell you about the time that I was six and I—?"

"Yeah, your dad used to wheel you and your cousins around in a wheelbarrow in the backyard at your grandparents' vineyard and one time you jumped out and took down some—"

"So you've heard it."

"Lydia."

"I _want_ to be with you," she says to their entwined fingers. "But I don't want you to change your mind when it's too late for me to walk away."

"I wouldn't ever change my mind about you."

"Being friends isn't the same as being together."

"Yeah, no, I'm aware of that. Thank you very much."

"I'm scared of letting you down."

" _I'm_ scared of letting _you_ down."

"And, Stiles, I'm not… I'm not good at any of this. I'm good at the sex part, not the pillow talk."

"Let's practice."

She brings their hands to her mouth and kisses his knuckles, then watches him as he leans in close, resting his chin on his arm close to her fingers.

"I'm grumpy sometimes."

"Same."

"And I don't know… Stiles, if you're doing this, you need to know that I don't… I don't look at love the same way you do. At least, I don't think I do. I see it as something temporary. Something… decayed. Something that gets destroyed no matter what you do. And I don't want how I feel about you to be ruined by life or time or anything, but that's what makes it so terrifying. Because that's… it's starting to make me see it the way you see it. And the way Scott sees it. And I might not be brave enough, all the time, to tell you that you're stuck to me, even if I do feel that way."

"I'll tell you twice for both of us," he says, grinning. Then his face gets more serious. "Lydia, _please_. I feel like… I feel like I'm living my life just waiting for you to tell me that it's okay to leave the starting line. I feel like I've been ready to run forever, and I need you to just let me, if you feel the same way. Knowing that you want me… it's making it so much harder to do this thing we're doing. Something's gotta give because I only feel right when I'm looking at you."

She swallows.

"So you want to? Still?" He nods. "I love you," she says.

"I love you, too."

He moves closer, his eyes getting hooded.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she whispers.

"We're jumping," he says, and her eyelids flutter closed. A moment later, she feels his lips brush tentatively against her right eyelid, then her left. Lydia feels like she wants to cry. Stiles leans his forehead against hers. "You ready to jump, Lydia Martin?"

* * *

 

_**A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips** _

"I bet I can get your dad to eat a salad tonight."

He looks up from his desk to see Lydia staring at him from his bed, biting her lip as she smiles at him, challenge playing out across her lips.

"I could get him to eat a salad," he argues. "If I really wanted to."

"Oh, right. I forgot about all those times you successfully forced your father to eat quinoa." She taps her pencil twice against her chin, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh wait! That was _me_. You're welcome."

Stiles spins all the way around in his chair so that he can rest his elbows on his knees and full out glare at her.

"He was just in a particularly good mood that day."

"Because _I_ was there."

Stiles shoots her an annoyed glare that he had definitely stolen from Lydia, judging from the way she tries not to laugh when she sees it. Whatever. She's picked up some of the weird way he words shit, and Stiles latched onto some of her facial expressions. It had started before they began to dating, but it's way worse now. Stiles almost makes it a habit to pick up other people's traits, and he's a fucking mess of them, but Lydia doesn't, and everybody's noticed it on her.

"Why does my dad even like you so much?" he asks, turning back to the paper that he's finishing up. He pretends to be grumpy because it's fun. In reality, the thought of the two of them sitting at the table in Stiles' kitchen makes his insides glow with happiness. "You're kind of pretentious, you and your quinoa."

"Why do _you_ like me so much?"

He turns around to look at her, opening his mouth to speak, and finds her with her hands at the hem of her crop top, toying with it playfully, raising it to reveal smooth, pale skin underneath her clothes. For a second, it almost has the desired effect on him. For a second he contemplates falling from the desk chair to the floor and just staring up at her for several hours, or days, or years— whichever comes first, really, Stiles isn't picky about time when it comes to staring at Lydia.

But then he forces his eyes up to hers, to the smirk playing at her lips, and he snaps out of it.

"I definitely don't like you," he says, mumbling it towards his jeans.

"Right," Lydia says, faking a yawn and arching her back under the guise of stretching her arms. Her crop top, already pulled up, wiggles just high enough so that he can see the underwire of her bra.

Oh god. It's the dark blue one that looks disgustingly good against her skin and also really, really good on the floor of his bedroom. And her bedroom. And his car.

Fuck it. She's already dragged him down, he might as well admit it.

Stiles closes the lid of his laptop with a loud thunk, then gets up and throws himself onto his bed, landing almost on top of Lydia, his arms keeping him hovering above her.

"Oh, hey," Lydia says nonchalantly. "Fancy meeting you here."

"That's my line," he says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Because it's cheesy as fuck."

She toys with the neck of his shirt.

"Maybe I wanted to return serve for once."

"Lydia?"

"Mmmm?"

"Would you pretty please take off your shirt?"

She frowns.

"Why, Stiles?"

"It's the navy bra," he whines, and Lydia starts to laugh at the pain in his expression.

"Would you take off yours?" she asks seriously, recovering herself. He sits up on his knees in two seconds, straddling her body, and grabs his shirt at the back of his neck, pulling it over his head.

Lydia pulls hers off too, and for a moment they grin at each other before they start kissing, Lydia rolling them over so that she's on top of Stiles, which is usually how they end up. He's never really minded it, though. He likes the weight of her on top of him. Sometimes it makes it easier to breathe.

"Was this all a ploy to get me to stop working on the essay?" Stiles questions as Lydia diligently sucks a hickey into his chest where his shirt will cover it.

" _No_ ," she refutes, looking up and grinning. "Of _course_ not."

"It was. Ugh, you're taking advantage of my weaknesses."

"A bra shouldn't be your weakness."

"It's all _lacy_ , and it's on your boobs," he whines.

"Well," Lydia says, sitting up on Stiles lap and looking down at him where he is leaned against his pillows. She moves her hips in a slow circle on his lap, beaming, a challenge in her eyes. "Don't get distracted next time."

"I'm never going to finish that essay," he complains, as Lydia continues to circle her hips, which honestly isn't fair at all.

"I love you," she says, and she doesn't say it that often, so when his hips jerk up towards her, he's not entirely sure it was voluntary. "And if you can't finish the essay, I think you can definitely finish something else."

* * *

 

_**A whisper in the ear** _

"You're crazy if you think Andrew Garfield was the better Spider-man," says Stiles resolutely, twirling the combination on his locker with finesse. "It's totally Tobey MaGuire."

"You just like him better because he's the older one," Scott points out, propping himself up against the row of lockers next to Stiles'. "Seriously, Stiles, open your eyes and realize that Andrew Garfield probably plays him closer to the comics."

"Kira told you to say that, didn't she?"

Scott's eyes dim for a moment, and Stiles inwardly cringes before he sees the light return to them, albeit a little sadder than before.

"Maybe," he says, a small smile at his lips. "Or maybe I've been a Marvel comics expert all this time."

"Ha," Stiles scoffs. "Right."

"Kira left you some of her old ones, though. In all seriousness. They're in my room."

For a moment, Stiles feels himself soften.

"Really? Thanks, buddy." He closes his locker, and Scott hitches his backpack straps over his shoulder as he follows Stiles down the hall. "And, for the record, I can agree with Andrew Garfield is easily the more bangable Spider-man."

Scott sighs emphatically.

"I guess that's something," he says, then nods to someone who Stiles can't see. He turns his head and immediately finds Lydia, who is standing at the end of the hallway, paused at the corner. Stiles grins widely at her, waving in greeting, and Lydia's eyes trace the movement of his hand before a look of determination crosses her face and she begins to march down the hallway towards Stiles.

"She looks mad," Stiles whispers to Scott. "Does she look mad to you?"

"Um, a little," Scott says, which means 'yeah. A whole lot' in Scottyland.

" _Crap_."

"Hey, Lydia," Scott says amiably, but Lydia keeps her eyes on Stiles, wrapping her fingers around his wrist.

"I need to talk to you," she says shortly.

Anxiety begins to claw at his stomach.

"Um, class is starting in—"

"Now," Lydia says shortly.

Stiles looks helplessly over at Scott, who shrugs.

"See you later?" he asks, heading towards their English class.

"Hopefully," Stiles says, eyes back on Lydia as she begins to tug him down the hallway. "Lydia, what's going on?" he asks. Staring at the back of her curled hair instead of her face is unnerving, to say the least, and her hand is gripping his wrist way too tightly. Also, he's pretty sure she can walk faster than him despite the fact that she's wearing heels.

"Nothing," she says, opening the door to the a janitor's closet and gesturing for him to go in.

"That's supposed to be locked," Stiles points out.

"I picked it," Lydia replies shortly.

"When?"

"This morning," she says, closing the door and immediately shoving him against it, looking him up and down with her hands braced on his shoulders. "When I saw you in that stupid hoodie."

He frowns, glancing down at the red and grey hoodie that he's wearing with the sleeves rolled up.

"What's wrong with this hoodie?"

Lydia bites her lip.

"Absolutely nothing," she murmurs before leaning up and kissing Stiles.

He's still frowning as his hands slide down to her hips, squeezing lightly as she kisses him, locking her fingers around his hair.

"Wait," Stiles says, pulling back. "Did you pull me into a janitor's closet because you wanted to make out with me?"

Lydia looks slightly offended.

"Of course not," she says primly. "I pulled you in here because I thought there was a chance you'd get me off. I'm not unreasonable. We could have just gone to your jeep to make out."

She attempts to kiss him again, but Stiles puts his finger on her lips, causing her to glare at him. He closes his eyes, taking a moment.

"So you, Lydia Ricky Martin—"

"Still not my middle name."

"—Are telling me that you pulled me into a janitor's closet, which you unlocked through deceitful means, so that I would go down on you during school hours on school property?"

"You don't have to go down on me," she says helpfully. "I happen to really like your fingers too."

Stiles' eyes pop open. He beams.

"My god. I've made it. The fates can take me now."

She slaps him on the arm in admonishment.

"Don't say things like that," Lydia says harshly. She slides her hand underneath his white t-shirt and lets it dance up his stomach to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. The other hand slips under too, joining the first as he finally lets her kiss him again. He kisses back fervently, hands finding her ass and pulling her closer, so that she's knocking against his body in all the best ways. "Okay," she says, pulling back breathlessly. "So I may have been a little distracted by you today."

Triumphant. That is how he feels right now, as she takes his face in her hands and scrutinizes him quickly before turning his head to the side so that she has better access to his neck. She sucks a hickey onto him, and if Stiles didn't know any better, he'd say that she was being possessive.

"Jesus, Lydia," he manages to grunt out. "Now you know how I feel literally at all times."

He turns his head and brings her lips back to his, nudging gently against her to counteract the frenzied touching that Lydia has instigated. Stiles' hand slides up to cup her cheek, and he murmurs "I love you" against her lips very briefly before he settles in to kiss her more deeply, opening her up to him.

By the time he pulls away, Lydia is clutching onto him to stay upright, and the determination on her face has shifted into a lazy, content smile. She shakily blows air out of her lips, moving her hands from the collar of his shirt to his shoulders and running them lightly down his arms.

"You can't wear this again," she says, her eyes serious even though there's laughter in her voice.

"I'm wearing it again _tomorrow_ ," he counters.

He turns her around so that her back is pressed against his chest, then slides a hand under her skirt and pushes her panties to the side to lightly rub his fingers against her. Lydia's eyes slip shut, her mouth opening, and she leans her head against his chest.

"You're an asshole," she manages to pant out, making him snort and rub faster circles.

"What can I say? I deeply enjoy exploiting your weaknesses," he says, pressing down harder.

Lydia moans, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth.

" _God_ , Stiles."

It's her moan that actually gets him— he slides down the door and ends up on his knees in front of her, widening his stance so that he can duck his head under her skirt to finish her there. Lydia braces herself against the wall with her hand, trying and failing to keep herself quiet.

After, she slides onto the floor with him and wraps her arms around his neck. He tucks his head into the juncture between her neck and shoulder and holds her tight against him, pressing light, fluttering kisses against her skin. She pulls back after a few moments and reaches for his buckle, fingers quick and eager.

"W-wait," he says, stopping her. "I have… class."

Lydia raises her eyebrow.

"You really want to go to class like this?" she asks, her eyes flicking down, then back up.

He tilts his head to the side, considering.

"That would be really inappropriate."

"Definitely more inappropriate than walking around with a fresh hickey."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. Huh."

"Huh," she echoes mockingly.

"I mean, I already got into college anyway," he reasons.

"And if you get kicked out, you can just move up to Boston with me," she teases.

"See! Now I even have a backup plan."

"And a damn good one at that," Lydia says sincerely.

"So I guess the responsible thing to do would be to let you get me off right now."

"I think you might be right."

Lydia smiles, and he places his hand on the back of her head and brings her closer, nudging their noses together before he kisses her.

* * *

 

_**Through a song** _

Lydia cannot believe that Stiles actually dragged her here.

It had been his idea, after all. He's the one who had wanted to drop a hundred dollars to walk into a yacht club with a swarm of their classmates and celebrate the fact that they had made it to the end of high school. Lydia, for her part, would have preferred to stay at home and wallow tonight. She had never gotten to go prom dress shopping with Allison. Allison had never made it down promenade.

But Stiles had seen right through that, and he'd gathered up just enough energy to get the entire group to agree to go to prom, including asking Lydia and catching her so off guard that she'd had to agree. In the past, Lydia might have demanded a bigger promposal or gone as far as to reject him until he figured out how to ask her like she deserves. Given the fact that she hadn't wanted to go in the first place, though, she thinks it's probably a good thing that he caught her unawares. If she'd had a moment to think about walking into this room and knowing that Allison wasn't going to be here, Lydia doesn't think she would have found the strength to say yes.

With anyone else, Lydia thinks that this night would feel like going through the motions. But Stiles' hand on her back as he guides her through the room keeps her awake and in-touch with what's going on around them. They'd done all the usual prom things earlier tonight. There'd been pictures in the backyard, Stiles' hands gripping her waist. They'd piled into his jeep, squeezing too tight to fit everybody in. And, of course, there had been the classic, cliche prom moment earlier this afternoon, when Lydia had sobbed off all of her makeup on the phone with Stiles. It had ended in him driving over and crawling onto the floor with her, cradling her in his arms as she cried.

She'd been mad that he'd seen her hair before she'd even had the dress on, but he'd stayed with her for the rest of the afternoon, having Scott drive his tux over, and he'd ended up changing into his clothes around the same time she had, zipping up her floor length navy blue dress when she'd needed a hand.

Seeing Stiles Stilinski struggling to tie a tie had given Lydia some excellent perspective in regards to her hair. She'd kissed him over and over again until she felt whole, and then she'd reapplied her lipstick, slipped easily into her heels, and floated down the staircase like none of it had happened.

It's been a day of crazy back and forth emotions, and Lydia would honestly rather be asleep in her and Stiles' hotel room right now than be in this crowded room while Shut Up and Dance blares from the speakers for the _second_ time (seriously, what?), but instead she's sitting at their table and watching Scott and Kira slow dance together despite the fact that the song is fast.

Malia had brought Mason as her date, and they look hilarious as they leap up and down, Mason hollering the lyrics while Malia focuses hard on dancing, putting her whole body into it.

"You okay?" Stiles asks over the music, tapping out the beat against Lydia's wrist as he listens to it.

"I'm mad," she says, speaking clearly even as she looks out at the dance floor.

"Because I made you come to prom?"

"Oh," Lydia says, startling a little bit. "No, Stiles. Of course not. I just… I'm mad."

His lips quirk up.

"Because I made you come to prom?" he repeats, slower this time.

"Because I used to want prom to be something different than this, and I cannot fathom how my priorities got so messed up. But I'm still sitting here wishing for something else. And I hate that."

"It's not your fault that you want her here, Lydia."

"It's my fault that I can't even get off my ass and dance with you."

He stops tracing her name on her palm and looks up, startled.

"You mean 'cute ass.'"

She rolls her eyes.

"So I may not have remembered your long, rambly speech word-for-word."

"You should. It was very eloquent."

"It really wasn't."

"You loved that speech," he says dryly.

"I really did."

Stiles' smile grows as another song comes on, this time slower.

"Come on," he says abruptly, standing up and sticking out his hand. "This is our one prom that we are ever going to go to. And if I'm forty-five years old and working in a dead-end job with three kids, a dog, and a wife who isn't you, I definitely want to be able to tell them the story of how I danced with a banshee one time."

She stands up, taking his hand.

"Two times," Lydia points out. "And you can tell those bratty kids that they rocked your world."

"Damn straight."

Lydia squeezes his hand, and Stiles pauses in the process of leading her over to the dance floor.

"Yeah?"

"I love you," she says.

He seems to be pleasantly surprised.

"Did someone spike your drink?"

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Come on. You don't think you deserve some honesty after all the shit you listened to today from me?"

"You call it 'shit,' I call it 'crying that is probably long overdue.'"

Sometimes they reverse places, and she is the one who holds him while he sobs. She is the one who tells him that it's okay to cry. She is the one who forces him to do things that she knows will make it better. They go back and forth between being the most damaged, but tonight, it's her turn. Stiles glides into the position of caretaker easily and effortlessly. Sometimes Lydia thinks that his need to make sure she's okay transcends everything else. She has never been loved so selflessly. It terrifies her in the moments that she lets herself imagine losing it. In the other moments, she needs it too badly to even consider him loving her any differently.

Lydia wraps her arms around his neck, gazing up at him with a small smile on her face as his hands find her waist and settle easily there.

"I know this song," she comments breezily.

_Being apart ain't easy on this love affair.._

"'Two strangers learn to fall in love again,'" Stiles says to her quietly, along with the music. Lydia feels her heart stutter at the words. "I don't ever want to be a stranger to you, Lydia."

She rubs her thumb over his cheek, shaking her head.

"Then don't be."

"We already did that. I hated it."

" _Don't_ be, Stiles."

"It's not that easy."

Of course she knows that. Of course.

"Be cynical tomorrow," she teases. "Tonight, I'm keeping you."

She barely understands the implications of what she's saying, but she knows that it feels right. And she wonders if maybe they could do it. If maybe they could try.

Lydia doesn't believe in anyone staying with anyone forever. But she knows that if there's anyone who she wants to change her mind, it's Stiles. She wants him to convince her. She wants him to accept the challenge.

"God," he says, looking down at her. "You know, you actually make me feel like a teenager. Is that weird?"

Lydia shakes her head.

"Nope," she replies. "I plan on giving you a hickey tonight that you're going to have a very difficult time hiding from your dad tomorrow."

"And I, in turn, promise to ogle your breasts like it's the first time I've seen them."

She smiles.

"Do you really?"

"For as long as you'll let me," he promises.

_Oh girl, you stand by me._

Lydia presses her mouth against Stiles's lips and hums along with the music, trying to press the sentiment into him.

_I'm forever yours, faithfully._

* * *

 

_**On a post-it note** _

They stumble home from the bar around midnight, spelling strongly of spirits and trying too hard not to wake up Lydia's roommate, a feat that proves far more difficult when they're tipsy. Lydia's fine, mostly, but Stiles is such a lightweight that she has to physically stop him from slamming his entire body into a wall. More than once, if she's being honest.

It's her own fault, Lydia thinks, as she flicks on the light in her apartment and guides her boyfriend over to the couch. She'd wanted to make it easier for Stiles to see all of the friends that he'd met the last few times he was up, but she hadn't wanted to take the time to go around to all of them and say hello when she could be hogging her boyfriend for herself. So, instead of scheduling a few meetings, she had promised one visit to the bar and then they would barricade themselves into her apartment for the rest of the weekend. And, yes, she would watch The Force Awakens with him.

A great idea in theory, except she tends to forget that Stiles basically gets bowled over by two beers, and the result of this is two feet clunking heavily on the floor as he makes his way over to the couch, diving onto it head first and groaning into the pillows.

"Lydia."

"Mhm?" she replies, setting her purse down at the door and re-locking it before she heads into the kitchen.

"Lydia!" he repeats, head popping up over the couch as he straightens up. "I love Scott _so much_."

She snorts out a laugh at the earnest look on his face, walking back over to the couch with a cup of water in her hand. Offering it to him, Lydia sits down next down to Stiles and pushes some hair back from his eyes as he starts to gulp the water desperately, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat.

"I know you do."

"No, but, like, _Lydia._ I really love Scott. He's my brother."

"I know. I love him to."

Stiles pauses, looking stressed.

"You love me more, right?"

She shoves him, hard.

"Do you want to call Scott?"

"Yes!" he hisses, nodding excitedly, but then he frowns. "Wait. You promised to watch Star Wars. You _promised_!"

"We're going to watch it tomorrow," Lydia says soothingly. "You need to sleep tonight. I got you drunk."

A lazy smile drifts across his face.

"Were you trying to get me drunk, Lydia Martin?"

"Pffft. You wish."

"I do. It would be a story to tell at the reunion. 'Lydia Martin got me drunk.'"

She frowns, worried.

"Please don't tell me we're actually going to our high school reunion."

"There's… there's a chocolate fountain, though."

"We can throw a party with people we actually like and I will rent a chocolate fountain. Just for you."

Stiles furrows his brows.

"People we actually like."

"Mhm, Stiles."

"Like… like _Scott_!"

Lydia claps a hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing at the thrill in his eyes.

"Exactly like Scott."

"Not Isaac," Stiles adds, this time looking annoyed. "Fucker."

"I want to invite Isaac. He's funny."

Stiles gasps.

"You think I'm funnier, right?"

She flicks him in the head and he whines in protest.

"Stiles, seriously, you're like a puppy when you're drunk."

"THERE'S A PUPPY?"

Lydia glares at him hard enough for him to look contrite, and then she stands up, helps him off of the couch, and drags him over to her bedroom. He falls easily onto her bed, snuggling up to the pillow as Lydia starts rummaging through his bag.

"Stiles. Where's your toothbrush?"

"Mmmm. Smells like you."

"Is it in the bathroom already?"

"Why do you always smell so good?" he asks, seeming quite concerned about this. "Are you a witch too? Are you a banshee _and_ a witch?"

"You already know the answer to that," she points out, throwing him a t-shirt.

"Hmmm," he responds, still seeming suspicious as he pulls his flannel off and then tugs another t-shirt over his head. "Maybe. Maybe that's what you want me to think."

Stiles lays down on her bed, blinking sleepily at Lydia as she pulls off her dress and changes into a tank-top to sleep in. Usually, when he comes to visit, he has to cuddle up to her on her small bed in her dorm room. This is the first time Lydia has an apartment, and she's a little relieved that Stiles isn't going to be squashed against her the whole night. He flails when he sleeps, occasionally.

Freshman year, he hadn't visited at all, and sophomore year, she'd had a single, so this is the first time there's someone around who could hear if Stiles has nightmares. She's almost glad that she'd gotten him drunk his first night here. Getting him down will be hard, but he's going to sleep like the dead once he actually gives in, and Lydia isn't sure how to explain to Phoebe about the nightmares that her boyfriend frequently wakes up with.

Still, there's a part of her that feels that, if he does have one while he's here, she'll be at least a little bit relieved that she's there to help him through it.

It's _weird_ to want to take care of another person so much. Lydia's never felt this way before. She had expected it to feel like a burden, but it doesn't. It just feels like caring.

"LYDIA!"

"Jesus, Stiles!" she replies, startling. " _What_?"

"Did I leave my wallet at the bar?"

"Um?"

"Can you find it?"

She would say no, but she can literally see it sticking out of his back pocket, so she takes two strides forward, digs it out of his jeans, and brandishes it pointedly at him.

"It's right here, dumbass."

"Oh. _Whoa_. You're so good at finding things, babe. Why are you good at _everything_?"

"It's a blessing and a curse."

She kisses him on the forehead, then goes back to looking for shorts to sleep in.

"LYDIA!"

"Shut up, Stiles," she protests weakly, but he's sitting bolt upright anyways.

"Is my money all gone?"

He's seriously such an idiot and she takes back everything she said about taking care of him. She's going to make him sleep on the couch if he keeps speaking this loudly. Or outside, if the volume increases any.

"No, Stiles," she says impatiently.

"Are you _suuuuuure_?"

"You just said I'm good at everything. I'm also good at being sure."

"Oh." He thinks about this. "Okay." There's a long pause. "Are you suuuuure?"

Lydia grabs his wallet from him, opens it, and shows him the money that's inside of it.

"See?"

"Oh," he says, relieved. "Yeah."

She's about to throw the wallet back at him when she catches sight of something bright orange, stuck in with all his money, oddly shaped. Lydia squints at it for a moment, noticing some writing on it that looks like her handwriting. Curiosity ignites in her as she glances over at her boyfriend, whose mouth is open on her soft purple pillow case as he closes his eyes. She plucks the item out, looking at it carefully.

_Hey, Stiles. Sorry I had to leave while you were asleep. My mom called me home. I'll text you when I get there, but if you wake up before then, I don't want you to freak out like last time._

_Anyways. Tonight was so good. I love you, Stiles._

_(I realize this is redundant, but) Love, Lydia._

Her body deflates slightly as she puts the sticky note back in his wallet and crawls into bed with him, wrapping her arms around his body, effectively jetpacking him.

"You're a giant sap," Lydia murmurs in his ear. "And I can't believe you carry that around with you."

"Mmm. What?"

"The note from the first time we—" He smacks his lips, clearly not listening. "Never mind. Go to sleep. I love you."

"Yeah, cheese is good," agrees Stiles.

Whatever. He's still her sap.

* * *

 

_**On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair** _

It's snowing heavily in Boston, which means, for Lydia, cancelling a lecture and curling up in bed with tea in her right hand, a book in the left, and Luke at her feet. She's read this a couple of times, but it's important literature for her research, so a cancelled lecture seems like the perfect time to look for things she might have missed in her thorough first and second reads.

She's only fifty pages in when Luke stands to attention on the bed, pulling his lips back so that his canines show, and then he's yipping excitedly and bouncing across the mattress, his butterscotch colored tail wagging excitedly.

There goes Lydia's productivity.

A moment later, Stiles bursts into their bedroom, covered in snow from head to toe, his expression disgruntled.

"Hey," says Lydia, marking her place in her book.

"It's snowing," Stiles replies as Luke leaps off of the bed and bounds up to him.

"You don't say?" Lydia responds. "And how was class?"

"Cold. Because it's snowing."

"Do you remember our first winter here when you liked snow?"

"I take it all back now," says Stiles, leaning onto the floor and picking up Luke, letting the dog cover his face in licks and kisses. The puppy yips in annoyance at Stiles' scarf, but Stiles doesn't make any effort to move it, instead pulling his hat off of his head and shaking the snow onto the floor. "Seriously, Lydia, I think I'm going to die."

"Oh, you're definitely going to die," she says conversationally.

"And why's that?" asks Stiles, sensing the catch.

"Mostly because you're dripping snow onto my hardwood floors."

"Fuck," he says, leaping onto the large throw rug that covers a large portion of their bedroom floor.

"That's not helping your case," Lydia points out, raising her eyebrows at his shoes. He narrows his eyes, annoyed, before he tromps out of the room, taking the dog with him. Luke pads back in a few moments later, followed closely Stiles, who is now in boxers and a t-shirt.

"Ta da," he says dryly, pulling back the covers and sliding into bed next to Lydia. He presses himself against her, burying his nose in the crook of her neck, and she screeches at how cold he is, his cheeks and his legs and his arms. "Dontcha just love snuggling, Lyds?"

"Get off of me," she says stiffly. "I do not love snuggling, you are freezing."

"I can't hear you, my earlobes are too cold."

When she frowns down at him, he playfully pulls on her braid where it's floating down her back, making her side and slide down onto her pillow so that it's out of his way. She looks over at Stiles, her nose pressing against his, and for a moment, she allows herself to feel the warmth of his eyes and the silly sweetness of the smile that he is offering to her.

"Well, I'm glad you're in the apartment now so that you may soon stop suffering."

He nudges her nose with his, then kisses it. And despite how cold it is outside, the afternoon light spills into their large bedroom, warming Lydia up from inside and out. She thinks that maybe she should go back to sleep, curled up in Stiles' arms, so she slides downwards on the bed a little bit and pushes herself closer to him until her nose is against his collarbone. He wraps his arms around her and kisses the crown of her head, then rubs circles into her skin with his thumbs.

"Hey, I have a question," he says, voice cracking slightly on the second word.

"You? A question? I'm shocked," Lydia says drily, but then she kisses his sternum and she thinks she can feel his cheek smiling against the top of her head.

"Lydia, would—" He clears his throat, awkward, and then starts running his fingers down her braid, taking a moment. "Would you ever consider marrying me?" She stiffens in his arms. "Uh, I don't mean now. I mean… someday. Would… would I be a person that you, uh, maybe would want to marry someday?"

She doesn't speak for a long time, and she knows Stiles is terrified, but she can't will herself to let the words come out yet. The truth is, there had been a time, a long time ago, when she had convinced herself that she was never going to marry for love. She would marry for money, for stability, for norms. She would not marry for passion. Passion fizzles.

But what she has with Stiles isn't just passion. It's partnership. Intimacy. Affection. Friendship. Equality. Adoration. And it's intrinsic by now, in a way that has her so cozy and comfortable in him that she cannot fathom having it with anyone else anymore. Love is theirs. It's not just a thing that people have. It's theirs.

"Yes," she says, voice soft, washing across his skin. "Yes, I'll marry you someday."

He breathes out, his body relaxing.

"You will?"

"I will."

"Okay," he says in one breath. "That's really good to know. Good. Good to know."

She checks the clock. 4 o'clock in the afternoon. And Lydia thinks that maybe she should get up and do something productive, but then she looks up at Stiles, whose cheeks are still a little pink, whose eyes are so light and wide and happy.

"I'm going to make hot chocolate," she announces. "Do you want some?"

He sits up, still seeming a bit awed.

"Uh, yeah. You want me to—?"

"No, stay here," she says, rolling to the edge of the bed and setting her bare feet tentatively on the cold floor. The sleeve of her oversized MIT t-shirt slides off of her shoulder as she turns to look at him affectionately. "Contrary to previous statements made, it turns out that all I really want to do today is cuddle."

His eyes widen.

"Can I get that on record?"

"Nope," she says cheerfully, walking over to the doorway. She pauses when she gets there, turning back to look at him, and isn't surprised when his eyes are still on hers. "I love you, Stiles."

"I love you too," he says, automatically. Because it is. This thing they have, it is so automatic. It was just supposed to happen.

Maybe it wasn't always like this, but it is now. Their lives are tethered together— knotted. And maybe Lydia could have snipped the string at one point, when it was more fragile. But now she couldn't if she wanted to. It's too strong.

* * *

 

_**Too quick, mumbled into your scarf** _

Stiles has a cider doughnut stuffed into his mouth, another in his left hand, and a cup of cider in his right.

"This is the life," he says around the mouthful of food, and Lydia throws him a grumpy, annoyed glance as her unnervingly flat shoes crunch against a red leaf that is bursting with color. "Open air—" (here, he finishes chewing and takes a moment before he shoves the next doughnut into his mouth, much to Lydia's complete and utter delight) "– Doughnuts, cider. This is why we moved to Massachusetts in the first place."

"We moved to Massachusetts because I wanted to do my graduate work at MIT, one of the most prestigious institutions in the field I want to work in."

Stiles grabs Lydia's hand with the hand that is now free, swinging it as they begin to walk up the giant hill.

"Mhm. Yeah. The doughnuts are just gravy."

He laughs at his own joke, open mouthed and thrilled with himself, which makes Lydia laugh too because it's a fucking stupid joke and he totally knows it, but he doesn't care at all because he made his girlfriend walk a little faster with excitement, although he's certain she'd deny it if he asked.

Whatever. He never gets off the couch anyways, so by the time they get to the top of this hill, he's going to be terribly out of breath and Lydia's going to be making fun of him again.

He'd woken her up that morning way too early, telling her that they were going for a drive whether she liked it or not. Usually, Lydia's out of bed at least an hour before him, but lately, with her workload, everything has been exhausting and heavy and he knows when it's time to put his foot down. She'd whined about her graduate work the whole 55 minute drive up to this pick-your-own apple orchard, wrapped up in her black peacoat and glaring at him over her bright blue scarf, slapping his hand away from the radio as he tried to put on some music instead of talking to her.

They've been meaning to come here since they'd moved to Massachusetts, and even though she's stressed and strung out and grumpy as the devil on his period, Stiles thinks that maybe she's grateful to be walking up this hill and arguing about what type of apples they're going to be hunting down.

"The red ones are better," Lydia says, shrugging.

"Bullshit. Green tastes better. They're sour."

"And once again, you prove that you have the pallet of a heathen."

He's really looking forward to her dissertation being completed. Seriously.

"You better stop complaining about my pallet, or else it's going to get offended and the cunnilingus will stop."

"As if," Lydia scoffs, but then she links his pinky around hers and drags him towards the section with green apples instead of red ones, Stiles tossing the rest of his warm, spiced cider in a trashcan as Lydia pulls him along.

She seems to get energy from being outside, and pretty soon they're crunching across the orchard into more secluded sections, finding trees to kiss against and eating their fair share of the apples that are too perfect to not put in their bags. Lydia eventually pulls her hair out of the messy bun and lets it fall around her shoulders, blowing back in the light wind, and she looks pretty and free and Stiles is reminded, for the billionth time, of why he wants to propose to her so bad.

He likes it when she's free, and she looks like that all the time when she's with him. He knows he makes her happy. She makes him happy too.

"You're staring," Lydia says, wrinkling her nose at him.

"Oh," says Stiles, blinking. "I'm cold?"

She nods, tilting her head to the side as she takes a few steps closer to him, removes her scarf from around her neck, drapes it around Stiles', and pulls him in for a small kiss on his lips. Then she bundles him the rest of the way into the thick blue scarf, smiling at the way his eyes blink at her, isolated on his face.

"Bet I can find the macintosh before you can," Lydia suggests flirtily, cocking one of her eyebrows. "You game?"

"I love you," he says into the scarf, so softly that he almost wonders if maybe she can't hear it. "But I'm still going to kick your ass."

She beams widely before she fakes him out about the direction she's about to run in and then turns around to dash down a complete opposite path. He scurries behind her, legs longer and pumping easily through the waning afternoon light as he chases the hair that is almost as brilliant as the leaves that get caught in it as they run through the orchard together.

* * *

 

_**As an apology** _

Stiles knows he's in trouble when there's a pair of heels kicked off in the middle of the floor. Lydia never does that unless she's throwing them halfway across the living room and huffing into the bedroom, too focused on other things to care about her shoes. And these are the ones with the red bottoms, which means that she would normally be taking really good care of them. When the red bottom shoes come out, he knows it's a big deal.

Which is how Stiles realizes that he's in even bigger trouble than he'd initially thought he would be.

Lydia's dress is also on the floor in front of their bedroom, where the door is slammed shut. He stoops to the floor and picks it up, noting that it had been floor length. She had looked absolutely stunning. And he had missed most of it.

He feels like a piece of shit, which is probably good, because he's assuming Lydia wants him to feel like that. Stiles approaches the door, knocking tentatively.

"Lyds?"

There's a long pause, and Stiles almost thinks that Lydia is going to ignore him, but then he hears her voice, close to the door, as she says, "Do you actually think that now is a good time to throw a nickname at me?"

He knows she's picky about when he gets to call her that, but he still cringes in surprise at the roughness of her voice.

"I'm sorry," he says, leaning his forehead against the door. "I forgot, okay?"

"You… forgot," she says, voice cold from the other side of the door. "You forgot to come to the event that I have been talking about for weeks, the event that was honoring my work, the event that—"

"I was only two hours late, Lydia."

"You missed my speech, you missed the dinner, you missed—"

"I know, okay?" His voice is angry, but it's not at her. "Lydia, I know how important this is to you—" She laughs in an almost manic way, which makes his stomach tighten. "–The alarm on my phone didn't go off, I was at work, I lost track of time because I was getting into a case."

The door swings open to reveal Lydia standing in a nude colored, satin slip with a two lacy white stripes on the front that slid up to cup the sides of her breasts, which are tucked securely into bra cups that are attached to the slip. She looks fucking hot, with her hair cascading down her back in long waves as she glares up at him, all 5'3" of her trembling angrily. In another version of tonight, he gets to tell her how sexy she looks and then help her out of it.

"Do you understand how humiliating it was to have people I work with _continuously_ asking me where my husband was? And for me to just… have absolutely no idea?"

"My phone got turned on airplane mode by accident."

"Right, because I'm very likely to believe that you are technologically inept!" she says in a fake cheery voice, clapping her hands together twice. "Oh, your phone was on airplane mode! Oh, you forgot to be not two and a half hours late! You're right, Stiles, everything is better."

She pulls her hair into a bun like she's preparing for a fight, then crosses her arms and glares at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Hey," he says loudly. "Lydia, I _tried_. I wanted to be there for you. There wasn't, like, ill intent behind this. I promise."

"You may have tried, but you weren't there, Stiles. You weren't fucking there, you were at work while I waited and waited and made them stall my speech like an idiot because I want to give it to you, because you're the one who had to listen to me practicing it while you cooked dinner and you're the one who heard all the drafts and you're the one who… fuck, Stiles, it wasn't for you, but it was for you, and you're the only fucking person I wanted there."

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to cry at how candid her words are. A Lydia who distances herself is so much more familiar than one who is able to communicate just how angry she is. This is real, and it's deep, and he's starting to freak out because she rarely gets like this and he's not sure how to fix it. He wants her to slam the door in his face, but instead she's got her chin tilted up towards him with her lips stubbornly set and her eyes blinking back tears.

As he watches, two tears fall down her cheek, and Stiles can't help it. He pitches forward and pulls her into a hug that Lydia immediately tries to squirm out of.

"Stiles, get _off_ of—"

"Take two seconds to pretend like I'm not the person who hurt you and admit that you need a hug." She struggles for a moment more, but then she sags into his arms and begins to cry quietly, her back shaking under his hands.

"I'm so tired," she whispers into his jacket after a few minutes. "I just want to go to bed and forget about this."

"You worked really hard on it, I know you're tired."

Lydia stiffens in his arms, then pulls away.

"Yeah," she says. "I did."

"Lydia—" he says, walking after her, but she shakes her head, starting to close the door to their bedroom.

"I'm calling Scott first," she tells him. "You can call him after I'm done."

Stiles takes a step back, swallowing hard.

"Okay." She shuts the door and locks it behind herself. The click makes Stiles wince. "Lydia?" There's no response. Stiles cringes, staring at the white door. He leans his head against the frame. "Goodnight. I love you."

His words are met with silence.

* * *

 

_**Over and over again, until it's nothing but senseless babble** _

Stiles isn't actually sure if he is supposed to be looking at his wife or looking at the pregnancy stick that is clutched between her fingers, but he does know that the two things, added together, are making his brain whirl.

"What?" he says, blinking at the two of them with bleary, befuddled eyes. "Uh, what?" he adds again.

"I said I'm pregnant," Lydia tells him, seeming like she is strongly doubting his sanity. She is cross-legged on their bed, her eyes searching his face as he tries to digest what is going on in front of him.

Lydia. Holding a pregnancy stick. That is positive. Because she is pregnant. Because despite the fact that they hadn't planned this— that she had been on birth control pills since she was sixteen, and they had said that they didn't want a kid— it is happening anyways. Lydia is pregnant.

"You're… gonna have a baby?"

She starts to smile, then grabs his hand and pulls him onto the bed with her, letting him pick up the stick and stare at it dumbly.

"I'm having your baby, Stiles."

If he had been standing, his knees probably would have given out, but he is already on the bed, so instead he just falls forward into Lydia's waiting arms and squeezes her tight against his body.

They had left it up to the universe, and Lydia is pregnant.

"Lydia, I got you pregnant?"

"I know that we said that we weren't going to try to get pregnant, but we left up to the universe and… well… this happened. So unless you've changed your mind, I haven't. I want to do this with you." She pulls back, jerking her chin in so that she can stare at his face and fondly brush her hand against his cheek. Her wedding ring is cold against his skin, but he grabs her hand and kisses it anyways, then her palm, then her wrist. Lydia smiles.

"I want to do this with you too," he whispers. "Fuck, Lydia, you're having my kid."

She laughs as he tackles her backwards onto the bed, his chest filling up with something undeniably enormous that feels an awful lot like the closest to perfection he is ever going to get. He kisses her until she is breathless, and then he kisses her some more, letting his hands splay across her stomach, projecting a heartbeat onto it with his imagination.

Lydia is having his baby.

"I love you," he says, smushing it onto her lips. She starts to kiss him back, but he darts away from her, pressing the words into her arms and her neck and the hollow between her breasts until eventually he finds himself face to face with her stomach and was pressing the words into it as well, saying _I love you_ over and over again while the muscles of Lydia's stomach jump under his lips.

He looks up at her, at how real she is, and ticklish, to boot, and she is having his baby.

"I love you," he says again.

Lydia sits up, covering her stomach with her shirt again.

"So," she says, pulling him closer by the back of his neck after he sits up too. "Who are we telling first? Your dad? Or Scott?"

He shakes his head.

"Just want it to be us for now."

"Okay," Lydia says, nodding simply. "Us."

"Ours," he adds, quirking a grin at her.

"Ours," Lydia repeats warmly.

* * *

 

_**With a hoarse voice, under the blankets.** _

"If you wake her up, I'll kill you."

The furious look in Lydia's eyes is illuminated by Stiles' phone as he attempts to make his way back to their bed in the dark, shouting out a swear when he bumps into the table. For a moment, both of them freeze, waiting for the tell-tale pitter-patter of bare feet against wood. After a few minutes of silence on Addie's front, both of them breathe a sigh of relief. Stiles slides into bed next to Lydia, looking exhausted.

"Sorry. I needed water."

"I told you eating the spicy Chinese food was a bad idea," hisses Lydia as he wriggles close to her, tucking her nose into her neck and wrapping his arms around her torso.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles grunts, shaking his head, nose sliding across her skin. "You're always right. We've been married for more than ten years, do you not think we've established this at this point?"

She looks smug as she kisses the top of his hand sweetly.

"A reminder every once in awhile wouldn't kill you."

Stiles snorts, dragging Lydia's hand up to his mouth to cover the sound. She slams a pillow over his face in an effort to muffle him, and he turns over onto his stomach, shoving his face in the pillow so that he can continue laughing. Lydia strokes her hand up and down his back between his shoulder blades.

"Oh my god," he says when he's done, turning to look at her with tears in his eyes. "I'm so tired?"

Lydia shoots him a sympathetic smile.

"I know. Me too."

"No, like, seriously. I didn't actually know I could be this tired. How is this possible?"

"This is what happens when we let her go to birthday parties," whispers Lydia. "They show scary movies and we don't sleep for two and a half weeks."

Stiles starts laughing again. Lydia resumes rubbing his back.

"Have you gotten funnier?" he asks rhetorically.

"No," she responds, which sets him off all over again.

He laughs until he's weak, and then he turns onto his back again, sniffing slightly.

"Do you think she's going to sleep through the night?"

"Have I found a cure for cancer?"

"Not yet."

"Exactly."

"Oh god."

"Do you have anything big coming up at work?" Lydia asks, laying her head on his chest and pulling their comforter closer to him. "I mean, you can sleep in the bathroom again."

"Yeah, but I feel like my boss is going to notice that eventually."

"Hmmm," Lydia says, considering. "How irresponsible would it be for me to lightly poison both of us so that we can sleep while she's at school tomorrow?"

Stiles blinks twice, staring down at her with wonder on his face.

"Oh, god, Lydia, _could you_?"

She puts her chin on his chest, thinking about it.

"It would just have to be some light vomiting to get us out of work, right? I could use—"

"Or," interjects Stiles, "we could do what we should have done a week ago."

"What's that?"

"Tell Scott she's his child and leave her on his doorstep."

Lydia considers this for a moment before her expression crumples.

"Oh, shit."

"What?"

"There's a flaw in that plan."

"There literally _can't_ be."

"No, there is," Lydia insists. "She sunburns really easily. None of Scott's kids do. He'll get suspicious."

"Oh, shit," Stiles echoes. Then he pauses. "Wait. Does that mean you had sex with Scott?"

There's a small cock of Lydia's head as she frowns.

"No, did you?" she asks, genuinely confused.

"I mean, so the sunburn thing isn't… cuz you know… you and Scott never—"

"Oh!" Lydia says, expression clearing. "Right. I forgot to think ahead and have sex with Scott."

"Exactly, yeah," Stiles agrees, sighing in disappointment. They're silent for a moment. Then he starts laughing again. "Lyds."

"Mmm?"

"We're _so tired_."

She laughs with him this time, and Stiles slips own in the bed until he's face to face with her, gently cupping the back of her head and bringing her face closer to his until he can nuzzle her nose. Lydia smiles fondly at him.

"We may not be able to leave her on Scott's doorstep, but we can absolutely unload her on my mother this weekend," she suggests. "She's been asking for some time with Addie for weeks, we can just tell her it's an early Valentine's day gift and then run like the wind before she realizes that this kid wakes up twelve times a night."

In the light of the moon, Stiles can see a devilish smile drift over Lydia's face as she considers this.

"A whole weekend without her? What would we even do?"

"Sleep," Lydia says flatly. "Stiles, I want it so bad. I need it so bad. _Please_."

He sighs.

"This definitely makes us both bad parents _and_ bad children. Are you willing to live with that?"

Lydia rubs her lips together as she thinks about this.

"I am," she settles with. "Also, I don't mean to be a worse child or parent, but if Addie's gone a whole weekend—"

He closes his eyes.

"Don't say it."

She tilts his head slightly with her hands and moves her lips close to his ear.

"We could actually touch each other," she murmurs, causing Stiles to shudder and drag her closer with the hand that is resting on the small of her back.

"Don't even tease me about sex."

"Sex? Who said anything about sex? I was talking about a tickle fight."

"Stop," he moans. "I think I could literally pop a boner at 'tickle fight.' Don't even _go_ there."

"Mmm, are you that easy, Mr. Stilinski?" Lydia asks, trailing her hand slowly down his torso to the front of his pajama bottoms. "If I'd known that, I would have started talking about tickle fights ten minutes ago."

"You should have. We'd be finished by now. _That's_ how long it's been."

She starts laughing, hiding her face in his shoulder.

"See, you can't crack me up when I'm in the middle of seducing you. It ruins the mood."

"Believe me," he says, moving her hand slightly over. "The mood is _so_ not ruined."

Lydia lets out a long breath, amusement vanishing from her face.

"Did you lock the door?" she questions.

"No," he admits. He glances over at their door and whispers, " _Alohomora_ ," then pauses for a moment. "It didn't work."

"Of course it didn't," Lydia mocks. "That's the _unlocking_ spell. The locking spell is 'Colloportus.'"

"Fuck," he says, blinking once.

"If you can get out of bed and lock our bedroom door without hitting a creaky board and waking up our daughter, I will do literally whatever you want me to right now," she promises seriously.

"Oh god," he moans, dragging a pillow over his mouth while he considers this. "You're such a punishing woman."

Lydia smiles.

"I know."

"Risk and reward," Stiles says, narrowing his eyes slightly. "If I don't get out of bed at all, there's no risk of waking her up. But there's also no reward. And I want the reward."

"It's up to you." Lydia shrugs. "I can just as easily roll over and go to sleep."

"At least pretend like you miss me."

She rolls her eyes.

"You literally have no idea."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know." They're silent for a few moments, and Stiles can see Lydia's eyes starting to drift shut. "This weekend, then."

"Mhm," she says, looking warm and cozy wrapped up in their blankets. He kisses the top of her head and then lifts it slightly to fit the pillow under it, then moves the blankets so that they're a bit higher.

"Love you," he mutters, tucking himself into her. "G'night, Lyds."

* * *

 

_**When I am dead** _

Stiles has been spending far too much time asleep lately.

Despite Scott and Izzy's efforts to tug him out of bed, when he opens his eyes to their faces, it's never what he wants to see. They feed him, and they take care of him, and sometimes he lets the kids visit him because they're basically his kids too, and not seeing them would feel like losing a limb.

Except he already lost a limb. He lost Lydia.

"Stiles, maybe you should lay off the whiskey," Scott is suggesting, his eyes wrinkled and tired. Stiles can see some greys, and he sorta thinks that Scott has aged ten years in the six months since Lydia died. Stiles gets it. He feels like he's aged too— aged far beyond his natural life span.

He doesn't belong here anymore. He feels itchy and uncomfortable in his skin, like he wants to claw it off of himself. Like he wants to bleed like she did.

"It hurts," he says, grabbing the bottle back from his best friend.

The wedding ring on his fourth finger clacks against the bottle, a reminder, and Stiles physically startled at the sound. Then he drinks more.

He just wants to go to sleep.

"Maybe you should go out tonight," suggests Scott hopefully, but Stiles honestly doesn't give a shit about what he thinks. Scott can pretend that he understands all he wants, but the truth is, he'd lost a girl that he'd been in love with from sophomore to junior year. Stiles had lost his wife. It's not the fucking same. It's not the same at all.

"Scott, no offense, but it's late and I just want to go to bed."

"You don't want to go to bed," Scott says, exasperated. "Stiles, you don't want sleep. You want Lydia."

"Yeah, and you're stopping me from getting to her," he growls, feeling like he might hit Scott if he stopped Stiles for any longer. He stands up, and Scott stands too, putting his hand on Stiles' arm to stop him. Stiles looks down at the hand, then back at his worried, exhausted best friend. "Seriously, Scott. Just stop. Just let me go."

Scott hesitates for a moment before he takes his hand off of his arm and nods slowly, taking a few steps backwards.

"I can show myself out," he says, voice weary. Because he's tried. Stiles knows it. Scott knows it. He tried hard enough. He just still wasn't successful.

Stiles brushes his teeth, slaps some water onto his face, and changes into a clean t-shirt before he stumbles into his bed. He rests his head on his pillow, grabbing Lydia's and tugging it into his arms, burying his nose in it. He's slept like this every night for the longest time, and he's terrified that it's going to stop smelling like her soon. Maybe it doesn't even anymore. Maybe he just remembers what she's supposed to smell like and pretends it.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Lydia is sitting on a large tree stump, staring at him. She's wearing a pink dress that is stained with blood around her abdomen, and her hair is long and straight. Stiles can't stop looking at her.

"Hey," he says, walking up to her and pressing a kiss against her temple.

"Hi," she replies. "What did you do today?" He cringes, and she sighs. "Seriously, Stiles?"

"Well… my wife's sorta dead, Lydia. I think I should be allowed to mourn, here."

"You see me every single night," she points out. "This has to be the easiest transition you've ever made."

"Well it's not," he says sharply. "So just… stop judging me."

"Fine," she says simply, and he crawls onto the tree stump with her, putting his head in her lap and letting her stroke his hair. "How are the kids?"

"Brie's engaged," Stiles says.

"To that guy she's been seeing?"

"No, she actually just picked someone up at the flea market and was like 'eh, good enough.'"

"I should have done that," Lydia says regretfully.

"She's too young, by the way. I'm thinking of saying 'I object' at the wedding."

"She's sensible. If she thinks it's time to get married, she can get married."

"Okay, I hear what you're saying. But also—"

"If her parents are okay with it, you should be too, Stiles."

"Clearly you don't know me at all," he grumbles.

"And Addie and Shai and Mira and Eli?"

"They're all really good too," Stiles says quietly. "They miss you. Eli said to tell you that he finished reading the book you gave him for his birthday. He really liked it."

"Good," Lydia says contently.

"And how's Allison?" asks Stiles, putting his chin on her knee and staring up at her.

"She's good," Lydia says fondly. "I tell her stories. She's been alone here for so long, I think she's just glad that there's someone else walking around the place. She'd probably take Chewbacca at this point."

He sits up, sighing tremendously.

"Just when I got you making references like that, you had to go and die."

Lydia laughs.

"I apologize for the inconvenience."

"You're never an inconvenience to me," he says. "I love you."

"I love you too," she sighs. "But, Stiles, you have to stop acting like this. You're there, and I'm here, and that's what's going to be happening from now on. You can't keep living for sleep. You need to be alive when you're awake."

"I love it when you nag me," he teases.

"Stiles."

"Okay," he says heavily. "I promise to lie to you about what I do when I'm awake for now on."

"You're… infuriating," she says angrily, shoving his head off of her lap and storming off into the woods.

He watches her go without regret.

This isn't the first time they've had this talk, and it won't be the last. After all. They have the rest of his lifetime to dream each other.


End file.
